Guest blog for Footsteps Counselling & Care

https://footstepscounselling.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/growing-upyou-always-want-to-be-part-of.html

Florence’s Story – Three Point Four

It’s taken me some time – close to a year now – to sit down and tell this story. It’s one I know all too well because it runs around in my head most days to some extent. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve come a long way since those dark days in Aug 2015 and I’ve received excellent physical and mental health care from the NHS – but the reminders are always there. That said, it’s not that I choose to remember or forget; it’s often said that parents who have lost a child never forget – talking about it doesn’t remind me because it is always there. It’s not a scar I wear with pride or relish, but still it’s there. Unchanged by the passing of time.

Following our 36 week scan, I’d felt a little unwell over the next couple of days. It was nothing more than niggling late pregnancy stuff, but a tiny voice at the back of my head made me wonder if all was ok. I went for a lie down on the Saturday and downloaded an app on my phone that listens to your baby’s heartbeat. I was certain I’d found it but later on asked my husband to talk to my bump with the silly voice he’d taken to using and say ‘boo’ to try and make her jump. She’d always been quite jumpy; the sound of the washing up clattering often set her off and as she’d been breech for quite some time, made her presence felt by dancing on my bladder. There is nothing quite as surreal as feeling a tiny pair of feet pushing down into your groin and her time of choice was often around 10pm when I was winding down for bed.

Crucially, I’d googled ‘reduced movement at 37 weeks’ and there a multitude of people were saying that babies often slow down towards the end of pregnancy as they have less room. As I know now; this is one of the most misleading and dangerous myths that is out there and it is completely false. But as I thought we’d got her moving, I put my worries to one side for the night.

It had been an extremely warm July and we spent the Saturday with family celebrating my dad’s birthday with lunch at one of our favourite local pubs. I felt pretty normal for someone approaching 37 weeks pregnant. I remember sitting look at my two year old niece munching on her usual pesto pasta and imagined the little cousins playing with her in a year’s time.

On the Sunday, we were invited to a barbeque at our friends’ house. It was a gorgeous afternoon and as my son played in the sunshine with their little girl, we commented on how he was going to be a fantastic big brother. The conversation also turned to how we’d been concerned about her movements and my husband asked if I’d felt her move today. Sudddenly it dawned on me that no, I hadn’t, and our friends suggested we go to the hospital for a check up. It seems insane now, but I was actually grumpy about it – it was late on Sunday afternoon, I was tired and it felt like a waste of time driving all the way to the hospital. Our nearest unit is now midwife-led so I knew that they would have to refer me on to the city hospital 17 miles away if there was a problem and this was something I didn’t relish on a Sunday evening.

I called maternity triage and was asked to head in to see them which we did, packing my son off to his honorary grandma’s. He was just excited about going for a holidays sleepover and we didn’t make a big deal out of where we were going. On arrival at the hospital, we were met by a midwife who got me to lie down (no mean feat at 37 weeks, I can tell you) and she hooked me up to the heartbeat monitor. We thought she’d found it momentarily – a racing heartbeat much faster than my own – but she seemed to be fussing and muttered about getting a colleague to check as she was having trouble. Her colleague returned with her and she too seemed to struggle. All the while, I was getting more angry and anxious because she’d always been elusive and moved away from the Doppler during check ups and I thought this was nothing unusual.

In all honesty, it’s a bit of a blur, but they muttered about the city hospital having better machines and that they would have more success, so we were asked to make the 8 mile journey on to there. As I drove us there, I reassured my husband that I was sure everything was fine and that the midwives were just being a bit useless. We parked up at the hospital and headed into the Women’s Centre – and – as we reached the door – we were met by the consultant who immediately took us in for an ultrasound. As I lay on the bed, staring at those weird suspended ceiling tiles they have in hospitals and offices, I noticed a treasury tag hanging down. I have no idea why it was there, but as I lay there, holding my breath, I suddenly had a terrible feeling that it was something I was going to remember.

The consultant was calm and lovely, but she too needed a colleague to come in and check. And then she turned, put her hand on mine and said gently; “I’m so sorry love, but I’m afraid that your baby has died.” And so our world came crashing in.